 John knew he was cursed, no other explanation would make sense in his mind. For the past three hours, he had been trapped on Peter's bridge in the middle of a fierce blizzard. Whenever he had taken a step off of the snow-covered path, his vision would be blurred in a haze of white, and he would be right back at the other end. He had considered jumping from the sides of the bridge to the ground below, as it was a fairly short fall. When he first peered over the railing to gauge the distance, however, it became apparent that while a fall wouldn't kill him, but his older age meant that he would be seriously wounded, likely breaking a leg. This would be manageable on its own, but he could sense something under him. Something too terrible to deal with, something he felt was responsible for his predicament. Its presence was subtle, but it was there, and it was hunting him down. Why it wouldn't just come up to the top of the bridge was beyond him, but as long as he was above it, he was safe at the time being. He sat down at the middle of the bridge, leaning his back against the poles and rungs that were designed to keep the thoroughfare from tumbling off the sides. Maybe if he just rested here, he thought, he could wait this all out, the blizzard could end, someone would walk by and drag him back to normalcy, or he could wake up from this terrible dream. As he pondered his options and possibilities, John couldn't help but think back to the history of Peter's bridge. And after the local philanthropist who had funded its construction, it was also where that man would be undone. Peter, old and fairly wealthy, had many involvements with women, his last being Marie. Four years ago, almost coming to five in a few days, there was an altercation between the two. Marie had confronted Peter on this bridge, though over what was never fully known to the public, the low traffic the place saw during the winter all but ensured that her body would not be found until a week had passed. All wounds to her face and neck, bruising on the side of her body with broken ribs underneath, and utterly frozen. Peter was investigated and tried, and was soon found guilty of both this murder and several other, admittedly lesser crimes. He was given a life sentence, though it was shortened by Peter's creative use of prison bedsheets half a year ago. It was that horrific murder that was the source of John's curse, he reckoned. People do say that hauntings happen around places of great trauma, or at least that's what he heard, anyway. John curled up as tightly as he was able, and drifted off to sleep. It had been almost a whole day by John's recollection, and still he was trapped on Peter's bridge, and still the blizzard screamed around him. While the snow was just enough to help sate his thirst, John knew he would soon starve to death if the cold didn't take him first. He lost count of how many attempts to walk off of the bridge he made, but it was well over a thousand times by now. And vaulting off of the side seemed like even worse of an idea than it did before, as it was clear that the thing stalking around down below was prepared for something. It had haphazardly placed some dark blue looking stones all over the ground, and they made John feel deeply uneasy. After another few hours, John paused, and just looked at his surroundings. Whatever light made it through the blizzard was reddish orange, giving the snow around him a peculiarly light orange-brown color that reminded him of peanut butter. Those little stones looked like grapes. What John wouldn't give for a good, filling peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich, just like the ones he used to bring to school as a young lad, the chewy, rough surface of bread, the creamy texture of the peanut butter spread, and the sweet, tart taste of that jelly. Oh, how he craved it, hungered for it, needed it. If only he weren't stuck in this horrible blizzard, trapped on this never-ending bridge. Though now that he was thinking of it, John didn't feel cold at all, in fact, he was feeling rather warm now, too warm for the bulky winter clothing he was wearing. As he took off the glove on his right hand, revealing the bluish purple fingers beneath, John suddenly remembered the truth. All of his prior knowledge of Peter's bridge, of his younger age, his entire life and world around him was an illusion. John was the king of the peanut butter and jelly land. But what was the cause for those prior delusions of his paler skin and believing that the bread of his castle was a mere bridge? Of course, it made sense now. The fiend who cast this curse upon him was that malicious and monstrous mage, morbidimus mold. That fungal fiend had infected King John with a wretched enchantment, tricking him into doubting the true nature of his reality and keeping him from his people, who were no doubt awaiting his return down below. King John's landing on the soft, accumulated peanut butter was punctuated by a deep pain in his side, no doubt the last bit of morbidimus' curse wrenching its way out of his body. He wasn't able to rise to his feet, but that was just fine for him, his most trusted members of the royal court were waiting in the castle for him. They looked different from how he remembered, though in fairness, his memory was afflicted by vile sorcery. The three of them were huddled together, drizzled with that delicious spread, staring at him with wide, toothy grins. Every single one of their four eyes refused to blink, no doubt out of concern for their king and their strawberry jelly skin peeked through in specks and streaks around the neck. With brisk crunching and snapping sounds, they rushed over to the aid of their monarch. Once he was escorted to the medical chambers, King John noticed that their touch on his skin was painfully cold, and their grip was getting tighter and tighter by the moment. By the time John realized that he was horrifically mistaken, that he was no king, that he had just stripped himself of his only protection against the cold, and that the faces staring at him were frozen in grimaces, it was far too late. The three intact hands were already digging into his throat and face, choking him with their grasp and trying to gouge out his eyes. The presence puppeteering the three had commandeered a fourth member to his form. It was only a matter of time before one more person crossed the bridge, became ensnared, and finally completed him.